High above the five steaming cedar pools, perched regally upon the central storm-cedar ridgepole of the open-air pavilion, Da Peng had transformed the bathhouse rafters into his private sky spa.
The Golden-Winged Wind-Storm Roc had tightly packed his huge thirty-meter wingspan down to a dignified twelve feet across. His plumage, forged from sky wind-gold and hardened by high-sky solar fire, gleamed brilliantly in the combined light of the twin moons and the amber lanterns below.
He was currently engaged in the sacred, careful art of post-war feather upkeep.
Thick, fragrant billows of stone steam rose continuously from the stepped basins below. It wrapped the rafters in a warm, cedar-scented sauna. For a high-sky raptor who spent weeks patrolling the freezing stratosphere swifter than ten lightning bolts, the hot stone vapor was an exquisite blessing. The moist heat softened the tiny horn-protein barbs of his flight feathers. It opened the pores of his golden quills and allowed his natural preening oils to spread smoothly from root to tip.
Using his razor-sharp golden beak, Da Peng drew each main feather through his bill with delicate care: zrrrp, zrrrp, zrrrp.
Every pass of his beak realigned the linked barbules, restoring his plumage to wind-cutting perfection while shedding the last tiny specks of cosmic void dust.
